


Wormwood

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Burning, Christmas, Gags, HYDRA Trash Party, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Gunplay, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Psychopaths In Love, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "After Brock gets his face deep fried in helicarrier fuel, Jack goes on a lil revenge quest. While his husband is in a medically induced coma and pretty much dead to the world, he hunts down every single member of team cap and tortures them as payback for what happened to Brock.Turns out Jack is really good at this torture stuff."





	1. Wilson

**Author's Note:**

> [The prompt.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6397175#cmt6397175)

Winter Soldier pushed his gun between Maria Hill's trembling lips.

"Yeah, take it all in," Jack crooned mockingly. "We will play nice if you do."

She glared at him across the room. With her hair tousled and in her torn nightgown, it was less than impressive.

They had surprised her in her home while she was getting ready for bed. Tying her to a chair in her dining room had been a child's play; perhaps Jack didn't need the Soldier's help that night at all. Still, it felt good to have him around. Jack always worked better with someone by his side. Having control over someone else made keeping himself in check easier.

The Soldier slightly retracted the gun, and Maria's glare focused on him instead. The Soldier was equally unimpressed with it. He pushed the gun in again, the sight pulling on her lip and the metal clanking against her teeth. 

Jack and Maria went way back, and he had gotten to know her quite well. He knew she was trying not to blush once she realized what that must have looked like, but it wasn't something she had any control over; she went red in her ears and high in her cheeks as the Soldier fucked her mouth with his gun.

"Yeah..." Jack said in a low voice. "Do you feel how hard it is? If you keep sucking on it real nice, it'll cum."

She glared at him again with pure hatred, but there was fear hiding behind it. The flush slowly faded, leaving her sweaty face unnaturally pale. Jack knew that feeling; knew what it was like to feel that weight, taste the metal on his tongue, and expect death. He waited for some sort of satisfaction upon seeing the same terror he once had felt mirrored on her face, but he had never been more hollow. He sighed.

"He won't stop until I tell him, you know," he said conversationally and, having finished drawing all the blinds in the room, sat down in a chair across from her. He rested his elbows on his thighs, leaning in. "He got an order and he always follows them. He knows bad things happen when he doesn't."

His eyes left Maria's pale face to scrutinize the Soldier's. They had lost the half-face mask somewhere even before the Battle at the Triskelion, and it still felt weird to watch his blank face as he tormented his targets. It was good it was blank though; any emotion was a sign of an impending malfunction. Jack wasn't expecting any yet; the Soldier had been treated in the Memory Suppressing Machine just the previous night, right before the Bank was plundered by what had remained of S.H.I.E.L.D. that moved the Machine somewhere else.

Satisfied with the Soldier's status, he looked back at Maria. 

"He'll just keep fucking your face if you won't cooperate," he continued. "He'll do it for hours until he, well... can't hold it in anymore and shoots off."

When the Soldier pulled the gun out again, she managed to lean back for long enough to ask, "What do you want?" before the Soldier grabbed her hair with his metal hand and snapped her head back in place.

"Answers."

The gun clanked against her teeth in the silence that fell, and, finally, her chin trembling, Maria slightly nodded.   
  
  


*

  
  


Wilson was surprisingly easy to find, and even easier to get to. Pretty dumb of the man to make himself so available. Didn't he know he had enemies?

Well, Jack thought to himself as he watched Wilson struggle against his desk in his small office at the VA, pinned down by the Winter Soldier, he did now.

He grabbed a lone chair standing against the wall and dragged it across the carpeted floor in front of the desk, bringing Wilson's attention to himself. He stopped struggling for a moment, his dark eyes tracking Jack's moves. Jack turned the chair around and sat astride it.

A few moments passed in silence as they just watched each other, calculating, both wondering what was going on in the other's head. Jack then lost interest and pulled a bundle of rope out of his jacket's pocket. He reached for Wilson's wrist.

"No," Wilson choked out, the Soldier's hand pressing down between his shoulder blades not letting him draw enough air into his lungs. The struggle started anew; Wilson's sweaty wrist slipped out of Jack's grasp as he pushed back against the Soldier, but he didn't budge.

"Asset," Jack said, and the Soldier grabbed Wilson's wrist with his metal hand. Wilson grunted as his arm was stretched painfully across the desk towards its front leg. Jack tied his wrist to the leg, and then the procedure repeated for the other one.

Wilson was panting when they were done, standing up on his toes to accommodate his arms, his ass up in the air. Excellent. Jack beckoned the Soldier over, and he picked something up from behind the desk before complying. He handed it to Jack, and Jack raised it for Wilson to see. Wilson frowned in confusion at the sight of his broken, mangled wing.

"I hear my friend here tore it out of your little jetpack," Jack said. "You could have died. Shame." He handed the wing back to the Soldier. "Maybe if you did, he wouldn't have been held up. Wouldn't be fighting for his life right now."

“What the--” Sweat gathered on Wilson's forehead as he struggled to understand who Jack was talking about. Jack could pinpoint the exact second he figured it out as his eyes widened in horrified understanding. "He survived?"

Jack scoffed. "I guess it doesn't matter to you if a so-called bad guy kicked the bucket because of you, does it?" He shook his head. "You  _ good guys _ are full of shit."

"So what," Wilson spat, "you're here to kill me now?" 

He was obviously addressing Jack, but his eyes kept nervously flicking to the Soldier. Jack contemplated his answer. He hadn't planned on telling Wilson anything apart from the reason why; he had wanted to surprise him, to keep him guessing. But now he wanted to tell Wilson exactly what he had in mind and see the look of horror on his face.

"There's one thing I want to do and see where it will take me," Jack admitted quietly, "so murder isn't exactly off the table." He glanced at the wing. "It's quite simple: I wanna shove this up your ass."

Wilson let out an aborted, nervous snort. Then, upon realizing Jack wasn't joking, his eyes widened. He looked from the wing to Jack in disbelief.

Jack wasn't ready for the wave of disappointment that hit him. The idea seemed to be too shocking for Wilson to get properly terrified. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, stood up, and circled the desk, stopping in front of Wilson's ass. He reached around to undo his pants, and that must have been when Wilson fully realized that yes, that was happening.

"Wait, fuck--what?!" he choked out. "Are you--are you crazy?!" 

He stopped talking when Jack pressed his finger to his delicate asshole. Jack figured he was simply rendered speechless.

"Looks tight," Jack said quietly, as if to himself. He then looked at the Soldier and gave him a slight nod.

The Soldier broke off one of the metal parts with ease, sending screws flying in the air; the carbon fiber tore like silk. He handed it to Jack. Seeing that, Wilson pulled at his bindings with a shout. Frowning, Jack hit him with the part of the wing across his ass, and Wilson let out another strangled yelp.

"I advise you to shut up," Jack said in a cruel voice, "because if anybody hears and decides to check on you? The moment they open the door, they're dead." Bracing his hands against the desk, he folded himself down over Wilson's back and, with his mouth close to his ear, lowering his voice, he added, "We're here only for you. So if anyone else gets hurt? It'll be entirely on you."

“Fuck you.”

"I'm a reasonable man, Wilson," Jack continued as if he didn’t hear the unimaginative comeback. "I can help you keep quiet. Do you want me to?"

Wilson was panting angrily against the desk, his sweaty back brushing Jack's front with every rise of his chest, and now Jack regretted not seeing his face. He could hear Wilson's teeth grit and the rope squeak as he tried to pull his wrists free again, but only hurt himself in the process.

"I used to be a sailor, you know," Jack added conversationally. "If I'm good at something, it's tying knots." 

He leaned back, shifting his focus to the metal in his hand. It was thin, but long, not unlike a rod. Too long for forcing it all in to be possible. Not that it mattered. He looked up at Wilson's ass, grabbed one buttock, and pulled it to the side to inspect his hole again.

"Are you a virgin?" he asked in a professional tone, as if he was leading a job interview and asking about Wilson's qualifications. "You look like one. Don't worry, you're in good hands. I know how to make the first time memorable. I don't wanna brag, but my methods are known to make my partners scream, so you might wanna bite your tongue."

"Fine!" Wilson spat out the word like it was an insult. Quieter, much quieter, he added, "Gag me."

"Sorry?" Jack asked, unable to stop the nasty grin that began to split his lips. "Didn't catch that."

Wilson's body must have been shaking mainly from anger and discomfort, but Jack liked the thought it could also be fear. He couldn't wait for it to be pain, too.

"Gag me," Wilson repeated louder, his voice dripping with hatred. 

Jack nodded at the Soldier. Without a second thought, he grabbed a couple of papers from Wilson's desk and crumpled them into a ball.

"You don't have to listen to him," Wilson said when the Soldier crouched in front of him. "You can beat him."

"Why would he?" Jack asked flatly as the Soldier forced the paper ball into Wilson's mouth. "We're friends."

The Soldier looked up at him, and the faintest hint of a smile showed up on his face for maybe half a second before it was overcome by that blank look again.

Or maybe it was Jack's imagination playing tricks on him. It didn't matter.

He adjusted his grip on the metal and, without any warning, he shoved it in the exposed hole before him.

Wilson screamed. God, how he screamed. Jack was suddenly grateful for the paper gag muffling it all; a crowd of concerned people showing up in Wilson's office would have surely put an end to the revenge mission he gave himself.

He forced only about seven inches in before he was met with a distinct resistance. Wilson must have been clenching pretty hard. His muscles were pulled taut, his arms and legs shaking. Blood pooled around the rod and dripped down straight into Jack's hand.

Jack waited. He waited until Wilson stopped screaming; until he started gasping for air around the mouthful of paper, sniffling. Until his legs gave out, and he slumped against the desk.

Nothing.

Wasn't revenge supposed to make him feel good? Ever since he learned about what had happened to Brock, he had been fantasizing about hurting the people who caused it. He wanted to give them as much pain as Brock had been forced to endure under the burning rubble of the Trisk. But now, as he was doing exactly that, he felt nothing. Maybe he was a little grossed out.

Maybe it was because he was just starting out. There was plenty of the wing left to shove up Wilson's ass after all.

He pressed his finger against Wilson's stretched, torn hole, causing more blood to pour out and stain the classy cream carpet. Wilson clenched up instinctively with another pained sound escaping his throat. It didn't stop Jack from prodding his hole, and he was rewarded with a grunt that was verging on a growl. When he managed to force his finger in, Wilson screamed again.

"Who would have thought? There's place for another one," Jack sneered, pulling his finger out and throwing the Soldier a meaningful look. 

The new metal part was shorter and thicker this time, and Jack thought forcing it in would really take effort. He didn't mind in the slightest. He pushed one end between Wilson's ass cheeks, forcing them apart.

It took longer this time around. Jack had to be slow and help himself with his fingers to stretch the bleeding hole even further. Wilson started his screaming anew before Jack even worked the tip in, and despite the paper in his mouth, it was becoming too loud.

"Shut him up, will ya?" Jack prompted the Soldier flatly. 

The Soldier pushed the soaked in saliva ball farther into Wilson's throat, and he choked around it, thrashing against the desk, making the metal tip slip out of his ass. Jack cursed under his breath. He tried to force it back in, but it seemed that small victory brought back Wilson's fight; he kept thrashing and kicking out and tugging his wrists. Jack stepped back with a deep sigh to avoid his heels that were aiming at his shins. He glared at the Soldier.

"What are you waiting for?"

The Soldier dropped his gaze as if in shame. He got up to his feet and closed Wilson's shoulders in a vice grip. Wilson still kept kicking out, but after a few more seconds, he gave up again. He let his body slump, coughing and wheezing around his gag. Jack reclaimed his place behind his ass.

"This is happening, Wilson," he said, forcing the wing piece back inside Wilson's hole. "Fight all you want, but if I were you, I'd invest that energy into keeping alive, because best-case scenario? You end up in a diaper for the rest of your life."

When the piece was finally forced seven inches in beside the other, Wilson lost his voice. He wasn't even standing on his feet anymore, letting the desk support him. He was shaking and bleeding and suffocating. 

"Now, maybe," Jack said, poking his ass cheek with another piece ripped out by the Soldier, "maybe you're feeling some of the pain and fear he had felt."

Of course, the two situations weren't at all similar, but the feeling of helplessness and impending doom stayed the same regardless of circumstances, of that Jack was sure. And yet, he still felt nothing.

Maybe he should have included fire in his revenge. Something to think about for the next one.

He sighed to himself. "Well, this ass ain’t gonna fuck itself."

He prodded the profusely bleeding asshole with his finger again. It didn't even look like an asshole anymore, but something grotesque from the most hardcore porno. Jack poked it around until he found an opening at the very bottom. 

He only began working the third piece in, when Wilson slumped further on the desk, and stilled. A sharp smell of urine reached Jack's nose. He looked down at the rapidly expanding dark stain on the carpet. Wilson pissed himself. 

Jack looked at the Soldier with his eyebrows raised. "Did he just die on me?"

The Soldier pressed the fingers of his flesh hand to Wilson's neck. "Unconscious."

Jack pursed his lips. "Pathetic." Now, with Wilson's muscles lax, he had less trouble forcing the third piece in, but it didn't go further than three inches. "That wasn't fun at all." He dug a teaspoon out of his jacket's pocket. "Alright. One more thing."   
  



	2. Romanoff

"Stop messing with it," Jack hissed at the Winter Soldier who kept adjusting his baseball cap. The Soldier pouted and dropped his arm.

Jack rolled his eyes as they rushed down the hospital corridor. More emotions had started showing on the Soldier's face; for now it was mostly pouts and one horrifying instance of a goofy grin. It was still too early for the Soldier to start causing problems, but leaving him on his own would have been unwise which was why they were visiting Brock together.

Damn those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for stealing the Machine.

They reached the room guarded by an FBI agent, and Jack nodded at him.

"Hail Hydra," he murmured.

The FBI agent moved aside to let them in. There was only one bed in the room, surrounded by various buzzing machinery. Jack took off his own baseball cap and smoothed out his hair without even realizing what he was doing. He approached the bed and sat down in a hard plastic chair. The Soldier stayed at the wall. The agent eyed him for a second before closing the door. Jack paid them no mind, too preoccupied with the bandaged man lying in bed before him.

"I hear you're healing fast," he said softly. "That's good."

He knew Brock couldn't hear him, but he still in some way believed that it would help him heal somehow, in the same way talking to plants helped them grow. Maybe it was silly, but Jack didn't care.

Or maybe it was him who needed to talk to Brock.

"Brought you something for when you wake up." Jack bent down to dig out a broken arrow out of his bag. "A little souvenir. I'll tell you all about it; you'll die laughing."

There was a pair of handcuffs and Brock's dog tags lying on the nightstand. Where his ring went, Jack had no idea. He couldn't exactly go and ask. There was dead skin still stuck to the dog tags in places where the doctors had to cut it out of Brock's melted chest.

Jack put the arrow inside the nightstand drawer. 

"Do you remember him?" he didn't look at the Soldier as he asked, but he could sense the change in the air, could feel the Soldier's attention on him.

"Yes," the Soldier croaked out eventually.

"He has third-degree burns over twenty percent of his body, including his face." Jack kept his voice emotionless. "Second-degree over twenty-five percent. That's a lot of pain, Soldier." He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction, but the Soldier kept quiet. "Do you realize it's your fault?"

A strained, "I do."

"Of course you do," Jack sneered, throwing him a sharp look. There was sadness glinting in his eyes--or maybe it was Jack's imagination again. "I punished you for it." Jack's gaze returned to Brock, to his beautiful face covered in dressings. He watched his chest rise and fall steadily for another moment. "Not that a few stun baton pokes were a proportionate punishment. Now, people we've been visiting? Theirs was. Do you understand?"

An even more strained, "I do."

"Means you have a debt to repay." Jack reclined in his chair with a sigh. "For letting you off so lightly."

It wasn't fair, but Jack needed his help to go after the Avengers, especially the ones stronger than him. Even Wilson and Barton could have caused him more problems if he had been on his own. It was important to keep the Soldier on his side, and Jack needed him strong and focused. He could always add to his punishment later.

He rested his hand atop of Brock's bandaged one. "I'll be back," he said softly and stood up. "Come on," he addressed the Soldier, "we have more people to punish."   
  


*

Jack usually liked watching two people go hand to hand, but the Soldier playing nice with the Widow was starting to bore him.

Or maybe he only liked it when Brock was one of the fighters. Who knew.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, leaning back against a sleazy wall of an abandoned chapel.

"Stop playing," he barked at the Soldier. "We're on a tight schedule."

They weren't really, but Jack wanted to get the hell out of Poughkeepsie as soon as possible. He was already mad he had to leave Washington to get to Widow in the first place, and he hated every second he spent in that place more and more.

The Soldier threw Romanoff into the row of benches with an angry shout. The bench she fell against moved back an inch with a horrible screech, but it was solid enough not to topple over. The Soldier didn't wait for her to get on her feet; he grabbed her by the throat, lifted her up and shoved her onto the altar. Jack put out his cigarette on the wall and slowly walked over to the struggling woman. She glanced at him as if he was only a minor inconvenience before her focus returned to the Soldier. Clearly, she hadn't yet realized who was dealing the cards here.

"You could at least recognize me," she choked out. Her words were ignored.

Jack casually pulled her phone out of her leather jacket's pocket, typed a text, found the right contact and tapped send. Then he put it back in her pocket. He could tell it made Romanoff more nervous than the Soldier slowly depriving her of air. 

She stopped struggling. She was still conscious, but her limbs were limp when Jack tied her arms to the altar. When he was done, the Soldier loosened his grasp, letting her pull in a lungful of breath before he squeezed again. Jack walked around the altar and stopped in front of her legs. This time, she kicked out when he undid her pants and worked them off her hips, but he was expecting that; she managed to kick him hard in the chest with her left foot, but he caught her right one, and as soon as she ran out of breath, they went limp again. When Jack finished stripping her from waist down, the Soldier let her suck in another breath.

She raised her head to look at Jack. "You're mad that I knocked you out in one hit?"

Jack only raised an eyebrow in response. Was she trying to piss him off? Not a smart tactic. She knew why he was here--if anyone on STRIKE had known about him and Brock, it would have been her.

The Soldier squeezed again and, knowing better this time, Jack waited for her to stop kicking out before he tied her ankles to the altar's legs, leaving her open for him. She raised her head when the Soldier let go again.

"You think rape will phase me in any way?" she spat.

Jack cringed. "I wouldn't touch you with a two-foot pole." He smirked then and walked towards the wall he had been leaning against to recover a broomstick. "Which is why I brought a three-foot one." He turned around. Romanoff wasn't tracking him, but staring at the ceiling that was as sleazy as the walls. "Well," he said, looking at the stick in thought, "I guess  _ technically _ you could call it rape." 

He walked back to the altar. The moment Romanoff started pulling at the ropes, the Soldier closed his metal hand around her throat again. Jack didn't wait for her to go limp this time; he wanted her to feel it, and the more she would struggle, the more it would hurt.

He wasn't expecting much. Sex was one of Black Widow's tools when working for the KGB, and he was sure S.H.I.E.L.D. had continued to use that to their advantage. Still, the fact that she was just lying there, taking it, was deeply disappointing. He had thought a broomstick would have made a difference, but apparently he wasn't the first one to use something else than a penis.

Still, he kept fucking her, shoving the stick a little deeper each time, traces of blood showing on it. Jack thought back to how much blood there had been with Wilson; here, he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't paying close attention. But then, a polished stick was going in easier than a mangled, metal piece, and Romanoff had a luxury of providing lubrication of her own. The obnoxious smell of her sex hit Jack's nose as the end of the stick became wetter.

"Are you actually enjoying this, Romanoff?"

Her eyes tore away from the ceiling to glare at him. "You don't know much about female biology, do you?"

Jack shrugged. "You got me there."

He pulled out the stick and inspected the tip, not bothering to hide his disgust. He wiped it against her thighs and pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket. He poured a hearty amount of alcohol onto it and then peeked inside the flask with his good eye--there was still a sip left, so he shrugged and downed it. He recognized concern in the press of Romanoff's lips as she eyed the stick, and that, finally, made him feel a spark of excitement. With a badly concealed smirk, he put the flask back in his pocket just to pull out something else--a lighter. 

"I always wondered if a wet cunt can put out a fire," he said as he lit the stick up. "That's a lie, I only started wondering last week."

She wasn't looking at him; her eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. She at least didn't try to talk the Soldier out of this. She was smart, Jack had always known that; she knew she wouldn't have achieved anything with that.

"Have you ever burned alive?"

She didn't respond, but Jack didn't need her to. Shoving the burning stick up her cunt finally made her scream, and that was more satisfying than any answer she could have given him. Perhaps that was the reason why his little session with Wilson hadn't made him feel anything--the guy had been screaming from the very start. How disappointing.

When he pulled out, the fire was gone, a wisp of smoke rising into the air. Romanoff's cunt was as red as the side of her face he could see as she had turned it away from him.   
  
"I believe it's not a third-degree burn," Jack said, throwing the stick away and walking around to look at her face. She was avoiding his gaze, but she couldn't hide how wet her eyes were.

"Which is a shame, since the second-degree ones hurt more. See, I learned a lot about burns in the last weeks."

He crouched in front of the altar, so their faces were on the same level. He let her avoid his eyes; it didn't matter, anyway.

"I'd like to see how long it'll take you to heal. I'd like to see docs trying to graft that." He reached out to the Soldier. A spoon was placed in his palm. "But I won't, and neither will you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three is already up on the meme, but if you'd rather read it on ao3, it should be up in the span of 2 days.


	3. Rogers

Jack hadn't been worried about Hill, Wilson, Barton or Romanoff. He had been sure the Winter Soldier could handle his mission, and he had been right. But they hadn't been the main course.

Jack was worried about Rogers. He had managed to break the Soldier's programming in the past after all, and Jack knew he couldn't beat him alone. But it was a risk he was willing to take. For Brock. He ignored the voice of reason that was telling him Brock would need him alive if--when--he wakes up.

It was too late to back out the moment Jack sent that text from Romanoff's phone, anyway, or even before that--Rogers would go after him the moment he learned what Jack did to his precious Sam Wilson. Truth was, Jack had set himself on a path he could not turn from, no matter how risky it was becoming.

"Whatever happens today," he told the Soldier as they were preparing for their last mission, "remember you're in debt to me and Commander Rumlow."

The Soldier looked at him seriously and nodded. It had been two weeks since his last wipe; Rogers had broken his programming after just a few hours. Jack knew he couldn't rely on that. He had seen Pierce use psychological tricks on him long enough to know what to do, but then, he wasn't Pierce. He lacked his charisma and manipulation skill. He had to work with what he had, and it had to be enough.

In the end, everything went more or less smoothly. Rogers came to the diner at night just how Jack had instructed him to in the text, thinking he was looking for Romanoff. Then he was attacked by the Soldier. Jack remained hidden in the shadows, ready to bolt should things go wrong. But they didn't, and Jack was convinced it was due to Rogers' own stupidity. First of all, he refused to fight back. He tried to talk to the Soldier, calling him Bucky--what a ridiculous nickname by the way--and for a moment there, Jack really worried his revenge mission was about to go to shit. But even though the Soldier definitely recognized him--Jack distinctly heard him say 'Steve'--he didn't stop pummeling his face until, finally, after long seven minutes, he managed to knock him out. He dragged his body to the kitchen, threw it at the row of metal counters and secured him there with the electromagnetic cuffs. Jack approached him, laying his hand on his shoulder.

"Good job, Soldier."

The Soldier turned to look at him. "Will my debt be paid after this?"

Jack studied his face. It was clear the Soldier wasn't happy with his current task. He might've even had doubts if he was doing the right thing. Jack's answer could determine how the rest of the night would go. 

He nodded. "Yes, Soldier. What would you like to do after we're done here?"

The Soldier stared off into the distance for a moment. "I am not sure."

"It's alright. You'll have a lot of time to decide." 

Jack patted him on the back and stepped towards Rogers. Considering his face was punched repeatedly with a metal fist, he didn't look bad; split skin here and there, little bit of blood, one eye slowly swelling and darkening. Jack wouldn't have much of a face after such treatment.

Super soldiers.

Jack's backhand slap rang loud in the silent diner, but Rogers' eyelids didn't even twitch. Well, at least Jack got to slap him. Actually, a few more backhands wouldn't hurt... not Jack at least.

He stopped when he got annoyed with Rogers' lack of reaction. "Bring him around with some water," he ordered the Soldier.

The Soldier filled a glass and emptied it onto Rogers' face. It worked; Rogers frowned, cracked his eyes open, then blinked the water away. Jack waited for his gaze to focus on him before he greeted him with, "Long time no see."

Rogers didn't react at first as he still tried to figure out what was going on.

"The last time I saw you, the muzzle of my rifle was pressed to the back of your head," Jack continued, taking his knife out of his pocket and flicking it open. "Definitely one of my fondest memories. I keep wondering, what if... Brock didn't like you well enough to not want to have you killed." He caressed Rogers' face with the blade, and Rogers flinched away from it. "And you sent a helicarrier straight into his face..."

"I didn't..."

"But it was your order, wasn't it?" Jack asked, raising his voice. "To shoot down the ships? What was the point, I wonder, if you could just safely land them instead?" He pressed the knife into Rogers' throat; he could kill him right then, just slit his throat. It would have been the easiest thing in the universe. But Rogers didn't deserve the easy way out. "Not spectacular enough for you?" He leaned in. "You think you're such a hero, so much better than all the _ bad guys _ as you think of us, but you don't care what happens to the ones you fight with. Do you know how many times I witnessed you kill a person just because they were on the opposite side? You,  _ Captain America _ , are no different from us."

Rogers was becoming more aware of his surroundings. He must have recognized the electromagnetic cuffs as he jerked his arms, trying to break free, but they held. With both his wrists and ankles cuffed, Rogers wasn't going anywhere.

He scoped his surroundings next, and that was when he noticed the Soldier, standing stiffly behind Jack's back. "Bucky."

Jack turned his head to check on the Soldier. He was frowning, looking troubled, and he returned Jack's gaze, clearly seeking guidance. Jack offered a soft smile and grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing slightly.

"You're doing so good," he crooned, and the Soldier visibly relaxed, even though it wasn't something that was done to him often. It was more of a show for Rogers than anything else. "Go back to the truck, get yourself a treat."

Rogers enjoyed the show, judging by his more determined attempts to detach the cuffs from the metal counter. The Soldier kept glancing at him when walking past towards the backdoor, but didn't change his mind.

"It's a wonder, how much a guy can do for a dog treat, huh?" Jack said after he left. It was a blatant lie; there weren't any dog treats, but chocolate chip cookies in the glove box.

"You will pay for this," Rogers snarled.

"No," Jack replied calmly, pressing his knife against the collar of Rogers' t-shirt, "now, you will be doing the paying."

He cut through the t-shirt, leaving a red line across Rogers' chest. Rogers clenched his teeth, but his slowly swelling face must have ached more than the shallow cut. 

When Jack yanked Rogers' pants and underwear down, he was surprised to see Rogers' cock's interest in his ministrations. He looked up at him with his eyebrow raised, noting the blush rising in Rogers' cheeks. Rogers looked away, struggling against the cuffs again, still believing he was strong enough to break out, unaware that Jack had already tested them on the Soldier in that setting.

"I knew you had a crush on me," Jack said, not hiding his disgust, "but really, Rogers? Just from me undressing you?" He caressed Rogers' hard cock with the flat side of the blade, and it earned him an aborted little gasp. "Oh well, I guess you haven't been getting any action recently. Were you saving yourself for me? Is that it? How sweet and _ delusional  _ of you." He flicked the head, making Rogers jerk. "Take that dick outta my face, you nasty slut. You're just as bad as Romanoff, practically begging me to fuck you despite knowing I'm a married man. And people think you have morals."

Rogers was obviously thinking of a good comeback, but when Jack mentioned Romanoff, he remembered why he was there in the first place. "Natasha. Where is she? What did you do?" he demanded.

"The worst is behind her now," Jack replied in a mockingly soothing voice. "Don't worry about her. Worry about you. Because I didn't get you naked to make love to you, Rogers."

He turned around and walked over to the deep fat fryer. He grabbed a ladle and dipped it in hot oil.

"Do you know what he said when I asked him if he knew what it was?" Jack asked conversationally, knowing it would rile Rogers up and that he'd be unable to do anything about it. "'It's for burning people,' he said. I honestly don't think he remembers french fries exist." He approached Rogers again, holding the ladle up. "But he was right in this case, so I scratched him behind the ear."

Rogers didn't have a chance to get properly angry as Jack tilted the ladle making the hot oil drip down onto the Rogers' neck and chest, drawing a howl of pain from his throat. The atrocious smell of burning flesh almost made Jack gag. He watched the oil bubble and the skin beneath redden, listened to Rogers' screams and waited…

Sure, it was satisfying to give Rogers what Rogers did Brock, and to be the one that made him scream. But Jack had expected something more. He thought that once he did this, once he made everyone pay for shattering his and Brock's happiness, everything would be... better. But Brock was still comatose in the hospital, and that, Jack realized, was fixing absolutely nothing.

It didn't mean he was gonna stop though. Maybe it didn't magically make everything better, but Rogers still deserved it.

"You may think you don't deserve this," Jack said, filling the ladle again. "I imagine in your head, I'm doing bad things to you because I'm a bad guy who likes hurting the good guys like you. But you do deserve this, Rogers."

"Maybe I shot the ships down," Rogers hissed, "but he was the one who launched them in the first place."

His words made Jack want to throw the ladle at him, but he managed to contain his rage. Instead, he slowly tipped it above Rogers' chest, making his skin sizzle drop after drop. Rogers' face broke in sweat as he struggled to suppress his screams--and it was a view to behold, to see him sweat--but he couldn't stop himself from letting out a pained growl every once in a while.

"Victim-blaming, Cap?" Jack snarled. "You know, after years of watching how much of a good man you really aren't, I'm not even surprised."

"I'd say I was sorry," Cap said between huffs of breath once the ladle was empty and Jack turned around to refill it, "but by launching those ships, he condemned hundreds of thousands of people to death. So no, even if the very ships killed him, I wouldn't be sorry. You may think he didn't deserve that, but the way I see it, he really did."

Jack tightened his hold on the ladle's handle. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to calm himself down. He was doing that for Brock, he reminded himself. It was Brock's gift. He couldn't just lose his resolve--how could he face him after if he did?

"You're a lot like Romanoff," he said, turning back with the ladle at the ready. "She, too, expected sex, and she, too, tried to make me angry once she found out I wasn't gonna put my dick inside her." He positioned the ladle over Rogers' face this time. "And I'll tell you what I told her: not a smart idea."

As he watched the skin of Rogers' face melt away, and the oil drip down Rogers' throat as he screamed, he thought of Brock. Until then, he could only imagine what his face looked like since it was covered in dressings, but seeing the red bubbles rising and popping on Rogers' handsome face now, he was getting a good idea. The difference was that the super soldier would heal, and after a while, there wouldn’t be a mark left. Jack would never be able to look into his husband's face again.

Once the dressings came off, would he even be able to look at what was left of it?

"I preferred working with your black friend, what was his name?" he continued, trying to push his worries away. "Winston? He knew what was good for him and cooperated."

"Sam," Cap said in a shaky voice when Jack turned to refill the ladle again. "What did you do to him?"

The satisfaction at the sight of a fearful realization that Romanoff wasn't Cap's only friend Jack had gotten to in his eyes was bleak, but still there, and took away from his anger.

"The worst's behind him. He's with Romanoff now." Jack tipped the ladle above Cap's chest, and Cap shut his eyes again, his jaw muscle jumping as he clenched his teeth not to let out any pained sounds. "You'll join them, eventually. Once I'm done with you. This will last a while though. Do you know how long Brock had lain under that wreckage?" He paused, genuinely waiting for an answer, but it never came. "I don't either, but I imagine it was quite a while before they found him. I just want you to really understand what he went through, Rogers. He lay there in absolute darkness, unable to move, hot oil dripping down on him, and he had no idea when that would end. Perhaps he was already looking death in the eyes. It's not the same for you, of course, you know you'll survive this. You'll heal." Jack almost sighed, looking Rogers' body over. "At least you lost that disgusting boner for me. I hope the next time you think of me, this will be the only thing that comes to your mind."

He went quiet after that; he had never been a talkative person, and he ran out of things to say. Rogers was also mostly silent excluding the pained growls he would let out every once in a while. He also tried to break free again once or twice before entirely resigning himself to his punishment. It was a little unnerving, as it wasn't his style. All this seemed to had gone too easily. Maybe Rogers thought burning was all that would happen to him. He wasn't expecting the cherry on top.

Once he was satisfied with the state of Rogers' face and chest, Jack put down the ladle and picked up his knife again. 


	4. Brock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It was a Christmas fic all along.
> 
> Happy holidays.

The Soldier was already gone when Jack woke up in their shabby safehouse on the Christmas morning. There was a possibility he just went out to get some air, but Jack knew in his gut that wasn't it. Once reassured his debt was paid, he left, even if it wasn't exactly true. Jack would have gladly added more pain to the Soldier's payment, but at that point, it'd be easier to catch the wind than him. Besides, the Soldier was hardly phased by pain after decades of it being an actual part of his maintenance, and even if he wasn't, it wouldn't change anything. Brock was still dead to the world, and no amount of torture could change that.

Jack sighed as he leaned against the windowsill and looked out the window. The weather was horrible; it had been raining for days, and the sky was the most depressing shade of gray Jack had ever seen. It was hard to believe it was Christmas. Even with all the preparations, Jack couldn't make himself feel the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was the fugitives' bane.

Maybe it was because he had assumed Brock would have been awake by now.

Just as he was considering drinking himself to sleep, his phone buzzed, and he picked it up to read the text. His face lit up.

"About time."

 

*

 

Brock was asleep when Jack entered his hospital room. As the Hydra FBI agent guarding it explained, right after he was woken up from his induced coma, Brock tried to attack the personnel and run, so he was knocked out with sedatives, but he should come around soon. That was even convenient for Jack; it gave him an opportunity to set everything up before he woke up and surprise him.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed and pulled out a small plastic Christmas tree from his bag. He set it down on the nightstand and decorated it with his handmade ornaments. He was about done when Brock started moving and he stilled, waiting for him to open his eyes with his muscles tense. When he finally did and saw Jack looking back at him, he offered a dopey smile that melted Jack's heart.

"Jackie."

And just like that, everything was finally okay.

"Hey there," Jack greeted. "You slept really long. Do you know what today is?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"It's Christmas."

Brock giggled with childish glee. "You're messing with me."

"I'm not! Look, there's a tree!" Jack brought his attention to the plastic tree, and Brock looked at it with his eyes wide as he noticed it for the first time. It made his blown pupils even more apparent. "I made the decorations myself."

They weren't as pretty as they could have been--Jack hadn't preserved them correctly and they paled--but Brock still recognized the ones that used to be Rogers' baby blues. He tried to reach out to touch them, but he was stopped by the pair of cuffs that was keeping his wrist attached to the bed. 

"Get that off," Jack snarled at the FBI agent, who had been eyeing the Christmas tree like it was a two-foot spider. "He's high as a kite, he won't be going anywhere."

The agent tore his eyes away from the tree and jumped to Brock's side to open the cuffs. Brock shook them off like they offended him and gently touched the eyeball that Jack made into a Christmas ornament.

"You crazy psychopath," he said, staring at the tree with wonder.

"Your crazy psychopath," Jack reminded him. "Forever."

They played a little game for a while, consisting of Brock guessing whom the eyeballs previously belonged to. He got Hill's, Romanoff's and Barton's correctly, but he couldn't figure out Wilson's. Maybe he completely slipped his mind.

"Now, do you want to see your gift?"

Brock raised his eyebrows and immediately winced. He raised his hand to the dressed side of his face and touched for a moment, probably wondering about it, before dropping his hand again. "You got me another gift?"

"That's just a tree, of course I brought you a proper gift."

Brock looked at the tree again, but this time he was frowning.

"Love?" Jack prompted.

Brock didn't answer immediately. "What... happened to them?"

"Me."

He cracked a smile. “Well, duh... But--”

"I locked them away," Jack said, not waiting for Brock to finish. Talking was visibly wearing him out. "In that warehouse we've been renting? Well, now I stopped paying for it, the owner will discover them... if they won't break out first... will be hard though, with all of them blind."

Brock didn't say anything, still frowning.

"Brock? Is everything alright?"

He shrugged. "I guess I just expected you to say they were dead."

Jack sighed, reclining in his chair. "They don't deserve to die, love. They deserve to suffer."

Brock raised his bandaged hand to look at it. "As do I."

Jack watched him unhappily. There was some truth to what Rogers had said about that, and even though he had no right to judge Brock, because he didn't know him--he  _ didn't know _ \--Brock still had done what he had. 

"And I," he said quietly. 

Brock's eyes darted to him. "Are you hurt?"

"No. But I wish it was me instead of you."

"You stop that." Brock slapped his knee. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Fuck's sake. Would never forgive myself." It seemed the drugs were wearing off. He tried to sit up and Jack sprang to his feet to help him and to adjust his pillows. Brock slapped him away again. "Okay, enough of that sappy shit. I want my gift. Gimme."

Yes, the drugs were definitely wearing off. It was almost sad; Jack had been enjoying Brock's dopey glee. He sat back down and opened the nightstand drawer. 

"First have this." He handed Brock the broken arrow. "I thought the appropriate way of punishing our archer ex-friend for his betrayal would be shoving all of his arrows up his ass."

Brock immediately dropped the arrow and looked at Jack with reproach. "And you made me touch it?"

Jack bit back an amused smile. "Some of the exploding ones went off. It was a sight to behold."

Brock stared at him with an unreadable expression. "You know what? You are so disturbing sometimes."

Jack shrugged and fished a flat velvet box out of his bag. "It was just a souvenir I wanted to keep. But this I took specifically for you." He hesitated before handing the box to Brock. "I hope you'll like it."

Brock looked a little wary when opening the box, but his lips broke in a nasty smirk when he looked at the star-shaped patch of burned, dried skin lying on the pillow. Jack didn't have to explain; he knew exactly what it was.

"I still can't believe you went after Steve fucking Rogers for me. Do you even realize how risky that was?"

Jack shrugged again.. "He hurt you. He ordered to shoot those fucking ships down, you know?"

"He coulda destroyed you." Brock gave him a hard look. "Or did you forget that absolute disaster in the elevator? You didn't even last half a minute in that fight."

“I had help.”

Brock raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"The Asset," Jack explained. "He stuck around. Uh... But he's gone now."

Brock kept watching him for another moment before looking back at the star with a soft 'huh'. "You'll have to tell me how you managed to pull that stunt, but maybe later. I'm beat."

"Of course." Jack took the box from his hands and hesitated. "Do you, uh, do you want something to drink? Water maybe?" he asked, cursing himself for not thinking of that earlier.

"Would be nice."

Jack put on his baseball cap and walked out into the corridor. There weren't any water dispensers, so he had to go to the cafeteria to buy a bottle. When he returned to Brock's room, Brock was lying back again with his eyes closed, but he opened them when Jack sat beside him. Jack helped him take a drink--he would have to bring straws the next time--and once Brock was done drinking, he laughed at Jack's cap.

"You don't look suspicious at all," he teased.

"My face is all around the news, love."

Brock frowned in concern, but didn't say anything. Jack knew what he was thinking, anyway;  _ then why are you outside?! _ He didn't ask, because he knew what Jack would've answered. They'd probably end up fighting about it, and Brock was clearly too tired for that. Still, Jack was sure he wouldn't hear the end of this once Brock was properly rested.

Brock closed his eyes again, and Jack grabbed his book from his bag and settled in for a longer stay. He thought Brock was already asleep when he heard his small voice asking, "Jack?"

Jack put down his book and looked at him questioningly.

"Am I still pretty?"

And Jack hated himself for hesitating, but--

Well.

He didn't know.

"You'll always be pretty," he said, finding it more comfortable to return his gaze to his book even though he wasn't reading anymore. He hoped Brock was too sleepy to sense the dubious note in his voice.

Brock didn't say anything more. Jack beat himself up for his doubts. It shouldn't have mattered what Brock looked like--Jack fell in love with the person, not his looks. But he remembered hot oil melting Rogers' face away, and it was not a pretty sight.

He sighed, looking back at Brock who was snoring softly. They went through so much together. That was just another obstacle on their way that they would beat because they had all the previous ones.

It would be okay.   
  



End file.
